by Sarah Torribio

Created on: September 05, 2008

Fading actress
(after a photograph by Diane Arbus)

Stop smoking, they tell me
me whose only tie to my old
beauty is the exquisite luxury of
a budoir gone empty and stale,
and my lonely ritual of tinted curls
and Max Factor holy water.

Be off with you. Let me die like
a rose fades, pressed in a book of
memories, romantic even in its
black-scattered-petals decreptitude.

Or join me in a cigarette. Ignite yourself
with my hot tip and blow carcinogenic
kisses. Have you ever made love to a memory?
It's an act with a bit of Chanel #5 charm, and
all the softness of an ostrich-down negligee.

Just be careful not to crush me between your
fingers. You'll be left forever smelling like
movie popcorn, hair pomade, speak-easy gin
and ashes. That and Chanel #5.

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